


Your Hand in Mine

by Dustbunny3



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, Just Talk to Him, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:40:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunny3/pseuds/Dustbunny3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cyclonus throws back some liquid courage that doesn’t do much, but does do something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hand in Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for notanevilmastermind over on Tumblr; prompt was "things you said when you were drunk" but this ended up more along the lines of "things you didn't say even when you were drunk." I struggled a bit with this one (I'm not a Cygate shipper myself) but I'm pretty content with how it turned out. Not as content as I was before #53 dropped, but I don't think their interaction here has been properly jossed, so I'm leaving it as is. Missing scene set somewhere between the forty-ninth and fiftieth issues.

“It isn’t like you to get so drunk,” Tailgate commented as he steered Cyclonus down the hall to their hab, hoverboard tucked under one arm. He could have– would have liked– to carry him, but Cyclonus wasn’t about to allow it no matter what state he was in.

Probably it would have been overkill anyway, Tailgate could admit. Cyclonus was more drunk than Tailgate could remember ever seeing him before, but that only amounted to listing to one side or the other every few steps and then correcting himself with decidedly less than his usual grace.

“I’m not so drunk as all that,” Cyclonus protested, the words laced with static. A short growl burst from him, more white noise than anything, and he had to stop and sway in place a moment before he was okay to go on, taking deliberate strides that did nothing to hide how he wobbled.

Even so, he probably could have made it back to their hab by himself, but Tailgate had jumped on the chance to escort him. It was the least he could do, considering what Cyclonus had done for him and had been intending to do for him. Besides which, honestly, he’d been eager for an escape route from the crowd that had gathered, curious about his new abilities.

Normally, Tailgate was happy to entertain a crowd– and he’d been enjoying it back at Swerve’s, too, mostly. But it hadn’t taken long to feel gawked at more than talked to, people looking at him like they were waiting for him to turn into something else. Besides, Tailgate wasn’t about to forget anytime soon where his last bout of popularity had led him.

Besides even that, Tailgate would take Cyclonus’s company over any and every other mech on the ship and be happy for it.

They reached their door and Cyclonus input the code incorrectly twice before Tailgate took his hand in a reassuring squeeze and reached to input the code himself. Cyclonus huffed as the door slid aside but nodded in that way he had that Tailgate had learned indicated thanks, his fingers curling around Tailgate’s in turn. They didn’t loosen as he led the way into the room with just a little too much weight forward, stumbling all the short distance to his slab and all but flopping down onto the edge.

It was a move that would once have dragged Tailgate along for the ride, but he found himself having to take quick steps forward so that he didn’t pull Cyclonus right back off onto the floor. Cyclonus’s eyes cycled off and on a few times and he shook his head before settling his attention back on Tailgate, sharp even through the fuzz of inebriation.

“Maybe we should’ve stopped by the medbay first,” Tailgate said, fighting not to fidget under the attention. “We could’ve had Velocity jump your FIM chip.”

“I don’t need the medbay,” Cyclonus declared. He drew himself up in indignation and then immediately had to brace himself with his free hand on the edge of the slab. “My FIM chip is in perfect working order. I’m simply not using it– it would rather defeat the purpose.”

“Yeah, well, I think you shot past the purpose somewhere into your fourth bottle,” said Tailgate, shaking his head at the memory of Cyclonus draining glass after glass even as he kept watching him through the waxing and waning crowd of their curious shipmates.

Cyclonus hummed, a considering sort of noise; his focus was fuzzy at the edges, but no less intense for it. He was quiet for a stretch, then made a rumbling sort of grunt sound, frustration lining his features. “No,” he said, more to himself than Tailgate, “it seems I’m not quite there yet.”

“Right, so,” Tailgate said, looking away and catching his attention on their hands, still joined. Looking back up at Cyclonus’s unwavering gaze seemed safer, somehow, after that, though it made Tailgate forget what he’d been saying. When he didn’t find the answer shining in Cyclonus’s optics after about thirteen seconds’ searching, he shook his own head and reset his vocalizer. “Right, so,” he said again, “let’s get you settled in.” That sounded right enough.

He activated his hoverboard and guided it up under him like a seat so that he had a better vantage point from which to help Cyclonus to lie down. He thought he might be pushing his luck to still be holding Cyclonus’s hand, but Cyclonus hadn’t made a move yet either to let go, so maybe it was okay after all.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Cyclonus said, so very quiet, once he was laid out and Tailgate was hovering at his bedside. He hadn’t once taken his eyes off of Tailgate. “I hope you know that.”

“Um,” Tailgate said. “I know that, yes, just–” His spark felt like it might burst from his chest again with each new pulse and he almost wished it would, would mutate him further and give him yet more strength to work with. “Is it… Is it okay if I do, though? Stay with you?”

Cyclonus rewarded him with one of his rare smiles; first a subtle curve you had to know was there to see, then something plainer, like he wanted to make sure it was known.

“I would like that,” he said, hardly a murmur but so sincere. His optics flickered and powered down, but he didn’t fall into recharge just yet. The tip of his thumb was tracing a pattern over the back of Tailgate’s hand. It didn’t feel like chirolinguistics– and Tailgate was glad of it, wasn’t sure when he’d be able to give talking hand another shot without feeling ill– but he got the sense that it meant something just the same.

“Yeah,” said Tailgate, as quite as Cyclonus was. He squeezed the hand in his, careful not to use too much of his new strength, and was gratified to feel a squeeze in return. “Yeah, I’d like that too.”


End file.
